Sino-Envy

Their customs are not ours
and you're barely fair-skinned
while I look more jihadist
than tycoon scion.
But we visit their temples,
wave  incense sticks
and pray to their ancestors
for guidance and luck.
You've never learned how
to write your name in calligraphy,
never learned how to thrust
the sword to the air
with a certain art,
have portions of your body
punctured strategically
with pore-thin needles,
nor speak in the lilting
staccatos of their varied
native languages.
I marvel at the nine eyes
around my wrist,
and the triple infinity, gold-plated,
keychain in my pocket.
Sometimes I wish I have
a necklace with a pendant
of an alligator's teeth
or an unused bullet
to gift you back.
One thing we agree on
are the noodles,
and February won't be the same
without mother's moon cakes
fried golden with battered eggs.
You prefer chopsticks
than the spoons and forks,
and at night our room
is drowned by the smell
of jasmine rising
above a candle flame.
And yes, you consult our futures
through I-chings and fortune books
and check compatibilities
by the animal years of our conception
and what elements differ us
but wood nurtures fire.
The small percent of my lineage
is an interesting discussion
since you're disappointed how bereft
your ancestry is of the oriental
men who sailed in junks
and bartered history, traded culture -
but then again, you're often
more Chinese than
my Chinese friends are.